Buried Soldiers, Buried Boys
by Wind Spark
Summary: Sent sixty years forward in time, Tim and Jason must work together in order to find their way back. Not as easy as it sounds, with the Joker in control of Gotham and Tim considering suicide. Jason knew he should have stayed in bed.
1. Chapter 1

Jason Todd hated magic. _Hated_ it. He hated the fancy stupid words, hated the unpredictability of the incantations, hated the versatility of the attacks, and he especially, _especially_ hated the costumes all magicians seemed to wear. Barring Zatanna, every magician he had met or fought seemed to have no concept of subtlety. There was so much color, so much _glitter_.

Luckily most magic users were intelligent enough to stay away from Gotham. The Bats all tended to take particular offense against them, except for Nightwing, but his fashion sense was nearly as bad as a circus clown's. Damian had been known to strip them down to their underwear and hang them from high places by their tights, while Tim enjoyed gagging them, tying them up, and leaving them bundled for the police on public street corners, large, spray painted messages directing passersby to the attraction. Even Bruce was rumored to have dropped a particularly brightly dressed villain into the lion exhibit at the Gotham Zoo. He had stayed to make sure that the lions didn't eat the man before the police intervened, but the terrified wizard had been unaware of his lurking guardian. Due to these occurrences, most magicians tried to make their way in Metropolis or one of the other cities guarded by heroes who would react less violently to their outlandish fashion sense.

But not this one. He had attempted to declare his name at the beginning of the fight, but Jason had cut him off half-way through with a flying kick to the face. Pity it had only been an illusion. Was it Mar-something? Mav-something? Jason shrugged mentally. Who the hell cared? All that mattered was beating the asshole and preventing any more children from seeing that god-awful purple pant suit. The cape had fur. And _sequins_.

Thankfully, this magician's power came from his voice, meaning that no matter how well he was hidden, he gave Jason a veritable target every time he opened his mouth.

"Ayisha! Ayisha ranasda!"

Jason cursed as the ceiling above him caved in, debris raining down in randomly scattered chunks. He managed to duck out of the way of the bigger pieces, dodging and weaving his way to a more protected corner of the abandoned warehouse.

Why did it always have to be warehouses, Jason wondered, more than a little cranky. It seemed like every other week he was being lured into yet another warehouse by some psycho in a ridiculous costume.

A chunk of concrete about the size of a football fell from the sky and slammed into his shoulder. Jason rolled forward on the opposite shoulder, coming up behind a pile of oranges. The oranges had once been a stack of crates that he had been crouching on, before the magician had uttered a series of words that sounded a lot like gargling and had transformed his perch into a tower of falling, rolling fruit. While at the time Jason had decided that all oranges needed to be destroyed with fire, now he was thankful for the shelter; anything else he could have used for cover had simply disappeared with a single word from the sorcerer who stood at the other side of the warehouse, resplendent in his purple attire, laughing at the Red Hood's misfortune.

Jason gritted his teeth and tried to flex his deadened and bleeding shoulder. The pain made his head spin for a brief, terrifying moment, but the adrenaline racing through his bloodstream kept him from passing out. Not too much blood, he assessed. No danger of bleeding out. But his shoulder, and his right arm, were now entirely useless.

Fuck.

His comm crackled. "Red Hood."

"Oracle, really, _really_ not a good time."

"Sorry. Just wanted to warn you about a magician that's supposed to be hanging out around your area."

"Yeah, I kind of already ran into him. Bastard took out my fucking _arm_."

Jason knew he wasn't imagining the worry that he heard in Bab's voice. "Are you alright? Do you need backup?"

"Nah, I'm good. The guy's not hiding behind anything, just need to get a clear shot-"

"_Hood_."

"-with a batarang, Jesus, don't bite my head off, I'm not gonna kill him, I've been listening to Daddy Bats, no guns, no fun for Red Hood, blah blah blahbity blah."

Jason peeked out over the edge of his orange fort, eyeing the magician, who was still on the other side of the room, completely out in the open, just a couple hundred feet away, and _god_, what he wouldn't give for a gun right now. Bruce hadn't particularly forbidden him from bringing guns on patrol, not that Jason would have listened if he had, but Jason had found that leaving them at his apartment decreased the sometimes very strong temptation to commit murder.

"Alright. I'm sending Red Robin in to help."

"Wait, _what_? I said I'm okay, it's just _one _arm, I can use the other one, I do _not _need help."

He didn't, not really, not at all. Sure, the spell from half an hour ago was still making his vision a little fuzzy, and maybe his right arm was out of commission, but all he had to do was get within throwing range of the little purple prick and one of Jason's modified batarangs would take him out. The fingers of his left hand traced the sharp outline of the small object. It was his own modification. Three seconds after contact it would emit an electric pulse strong enough to knock out anyone one happened to be touching it. Or who happened to have it buried in his leg.

All he had to do was get close enough to throw it. Just a couple hundred feet. With any luck the man would be stupid enough to let him get close before launching a counter attack.

See? He had a plan. He wasn't some idiot thug who only relied on his fists to get him out of trouble. And he certainly didn't need the replacement stepping in to _help _him, the kid was an annoying little know it all who would only get in his way.

"I'm sure you're perfectly fine," and that was definitely sarcasm he heard, "but backup doesn't hurt. Red Robin is only three blocks away, he should be there in less than a minute."

Jason sighed, listening to his breath crackle through the microphone. "Just one day, could we please just take my word for it and trust that I can take care of myself."

"Sure. Absolutely. And the day that happens and you kill yourself doing something stupid on patrol, who's going to tell Bruce? Who's going to tell _Alfred_?"

"…screw it. I'm going in. Tell the kid to hurry up or he's going to miss all the fun."

"Hood, wait for backup, he's less than a minute-"

"No can do, sis," Jason said, cutting off the two-way transmission with the tap of a finger. "Any other day I might wait, but not right now. That costume is just too damn obnoxious to let live."

He waited a second more before rushing out, batarang in hand, running in a vaguely zigzagging pattern in the direction of the magician, who was still standing there, just waiting for him. Good. If he was waiting for Jason to get closer than he wouldn't be expecting an attack while the Red Hood was still over a hundred feet away. Jason was confident that even with his left hand, he could hit the man from that distance, and even if he missed one, there were a dozed other weapons in his belt that could distract the wizard while he tried to get off another electrified batarang.

And then the floor opened up in front of him. Jason hadn't heard an incantation, hadn't seen the magician's lips move, and was therefore completely unprepared for the sudden lack of solid ground under his feet. There was nothing but the sudden fall, a dizzying drop, and…

_Fuck_.

Spikes. Fucking spikes, embedded in the floor.

_Christ that seems a little excessive._

Jason had barely a second to try and position himself before his body slammed into the floor below. A spike, thin, pointed, and over a foot tall stabbed through his side and _thank god they were spaced so far apart_, he'd barely avoided impaling his leg, which would have sucked, loosing the use of an arm an a leg in the same night, at least it was just his side, as long as nothing vital had been damaged he would be alright in a week or two… Had anything vital been damaged? He couldn't really tell. He was kind of pinned to the floor like a butterfly. Which, by the way, _really fucking hurt_.

Ok. He was ok. Calm. Deep breathes, _wait fuck no_, no deep breathing no breathing at all, no moving, no nothing, just shift a little and find the knife in his belt, maybe he could saw through the spike...

Above, a crash echoed through the warehouse, something breaking, then a shout, (_Tim's_?) and a slew of answering syllables followed by something bright, something glowing...

In the darkness of the pit, Jason was blind to what was occurring above, but the rapidly brightening light could not be a good sign. Brighter and brighter and brighter, and something was tightening in his chest, something was pulling at him, jerking him, and as Jason squeezed his eyes shut and let the light engulf him, there was only time for a single thought.

_Shit_.

* * *

Aloha. I have resurrected myself yet again, this time bringing the promise of a multi-chapter Batman fic, featuring quite a bit of angst, brotherly love, the boys being smart-asses, and lots of fluff. Main characters are Jason and Tim, but lots of Damian and Cass, some Bruce and Dick.

I'm really excited about this one. As long as I stay motivated and actually write stuff, this should be one of my best fics, hopefully.

Fingers crossed.


	2. Chapter 2

Timothy Drake was not going to live to see his next birthday.

Tim did not claim to be a psychic or a fortune teller, but sometimes he knew things. Like how he knew he was going to die in less than three months.

Something was going to happen. A villain would get the upper hand. A wound wouldn't heal properly. Someone's bullet would catch him between the eyes. A cable would snap and maybe he wouldn't be able to catch himself in time.

And if none of that happened, then he would simply jump off a roof.

This roof in particular in fact. It was a nice enough roof, topping an abandoned apartment complex that reached twenty stories into the sky. Ten years ago it would have been crowded with people, but smuggling and escalated gang warfare had convinced most of the families to leave, and the complex had gone out of business. Now it served only as a home for rats and the occasional runaway, and for wandering Robins who needed a place to think.

It was a quiet part of town, cut off from the bustle of the inner city. A few more abandoned buildings were crowded around in a desolate clump, the city ahead, lines of warehouses behind.

Tim liked it here. There were few people, meaning no eye witness, no cameras, no one to report back to Oracle or Bruce, no one to ask him what he was doing, brooding there on the roof of an abandoned apartment complex.

If he jumped off, just stepped off the edge, right now, right this second, no one would know. On one would notice.

Which was good. He wasn't going to kill himself because he wanted attention. He didn't even want to kill himself, not really, didn't want anyone to think that he had given up, to think that he was weak, pathetic, everything that they had always thought he was anyway, but at this point Tim didn't really see that there was anything else he could do.

He was empty.

He was already a shell, already gone, it just didn't seem like anyone had noticed.

_How could they not notice?_ Why couldn't they see, how could they not, he had been _bleeding_, why hadn't they _helped_ him?

Too late now. It was only a matter of time before he collapsed. It had begun to show in his work months ago; an absentmindedness, a lack of enthusiasm, too many sleepless nights trying to catch up on the work that he missed because of the days when the weight on his chest was too heavy, when his body was simply too numb to move. He had been bleeding out. There were too many holes in his heart, too many empty places, too much, too much-

Why hadn't someone noticed? Bruce? Dick? Why hadn't they helped him? Why had they left him alone?

He didn't like being alone.

He had been alone before, when he was younger and smaller and not quite so empty, alone in a big house in a big city, everything hollow and still and echoing around him. He hadn't liked it.

Batman had saved him.

_Where's Batman now? Where is he? Not here. Not with you._

_You're alone._

He hadn't been alone. Not before. Before there had been Bruce, Alfred, Dick, Babs, then Steph, Kon, Bart, and finally Cass.

_Who's left, who's left, you lost them all, where did they go?_

Bruce and Dick were too busy with the demon child to even look at him these days.

Alfred and Babs were _there_ but just out of reach, slightly aloof, on a pedestal somewhere high above him, and he loved them too much drag them down and get them involved with this, with him, with his mind and his mess.

Cass, who was his friend, his sister… He hadn't spoken to her since she has moved to Bludhaven.

Steph. Kon. Bart.

_Lost them. You lost them._

And the ever present whisper at the back of his mind, the pang in his heart that never really went away.

_Mom. Dad._

Better this way. Better now, better quick and easy, instead of pushing, trying to keep going, because he had nothing left to give. If he pushed any more his hollow center would crack, shatter right down the middle, and Bruce would have to notice that his third son had gone insane, and then he'd have to worry, have to deal with it, have to clean up the mess. Better this way. Better to leave a body, but none of the pain. Better a quick ending. Tim had never liked stories that dragged on and on when there was no sense of prolonging the inevitable.

Because Tim Drake was already dead. He had died some time ago, and no one had noticed.

…

"Red Robin? We've got trouble. Red Hood and a magician, three blocks south east of your current location, warehouse 37B."

Tim Drake was going to die. He was going to be shot, or beaten, or pushed. Or he might fall.

But not today. He could hold on a little longer. Not today. Today he has to save the asshole who happened to be his older brother.

But maybe…

Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

Eh. Not much happening in this chapter plot wise, kinda short, but I really needed to just establish were Timmy's head is right now.


	3. Chapter 3

Falling again. He needed to do something about that. Falling was not a good idea. The landings tended to-

_Crunch_.

Fucking French pepperoni dogs that hurt. Not just stung, not just ached, but _hurt_, like there was fire down his side and burning through his lungs. His vision, which had been beginning to come back, blurred threateningly around the edges. Bright gold spots danced across his eyes as he blinked, head spinning, nope, no passing out, that would actually be a horrible idea since he had no idea where the hell he was.

There was a high-pitched yelp nearby, and then the dull thud of a body hitting the ground.

Tim? Or the magician?

Jason tried to stay as still as possible, air burning his chest as he held his breath, waiting for his vision to become clearer.

With a few rapid blinks, he could see the sky above him. Gotham sky, if he had to guess, grey with pollution that covered everything in a dirty cloud. He was in an… an alley? Disoriented, Jason tried to pick out the details of his surroundings. Brick walls lead a narrow path up to the sky, and a rotting fire escape hung near a window. But he wasn't lying on the ground. There had been a sound when he landed, something giving way beneath his body, and that something was poking him rather sharply in the back of the head. A dumpster? Yes, there was the smell now. Instead of bouncing off the plastic, the cover had simply caved in, wrapping around the indentation of his body in a smelly plastic hug.

Shit. His right arm was still numb and useless, and his left arm was pinned against his side. And his side _hurt_. His leg was also twisted a little uncomfortably, probably due to the angle he had landed at while trying to avoid the spikes. _Fucking_ spikes.

Dread settled in his stomach, heavy as lead. _Not the magician, not the magician, please be the replacement, come on pretender, get up, say something, I can't do anything until I know it's you_.

He lifted his head carefully, trying to catch a glimpse of the figure. Red and black, or sparkly purple? The angle wasn't right, the body blocked by a pile of sagging cardboard boxes.

There was a soft groan, and the figure stood.

Jason let out the breath he had been holding. Tim looked a little bedraggled, but he was in one piece and didn't appear to be bleeding.

"Yo, replacement."

Tim jumped, turning sharply and shifting into a fighting stance, fist up, and _shit_, batarang in hand, _how had he grabbed that so quickly_?

"Wow, kid, calm down, it's just me, don't you _dare _throw that."

Red Robin was still in full fight mode, adrenaline coursing, looking for an enemy that apparently had not followed them to… wherever they were.

"Hood?"

"You were expecting maybe Bugs Bunny?" Jason snapped. "Get over here and give me a hand."

Now that he had assessed the situation and found no visible threats, Jason was crashing. Blood was leaking steadily out of his side, soaking through his coat, (damn, that was going to stain) and pain was lancing through his body. He needed to get back home, he needed to wrap himself up, and he needed to do it _now_, before he passed out and the pretender had to drag his ass to the manor. Which, thanks but no thanks, he was on better terms with Bruce these days, but he didn't like how the man _loomed_.

Tim gave himself a shake, looked around quickly, and then pocketed the batarang, making his way over to Jason. He pulled himself up onto the dumpster, careful to stay around the edges and not put any pressure on the dented plastic that was holding Jason.

"Injuries?"

"Right arm. Possibly leg. And that whole area right there where all the blood is."

Tim made a soft, sighing sound in his throat, the usual noise he made when Jason started snapping at him. He crouched, contemplating his older brother and the situation he had landed in, resting his hand against his chin.

Jason clenched his teeth, trying not to growl.

"Sometime _today_, if you don't mind."

"Yeah," Tim said, nodding absently, "just trying to see if there's a way to get you out of this without it hurting too badly."

"And?"

"There isn't."

"Well then, if you're done staring," Jason snarled, "can we get on with it?"

Tim, Jason could tell, was beginning to become annoyed. He didn't like being rushed.

"Well," he snapped back, "we could, but the only way I can currently see of getting you out would be this: I pull the cover back, you are free to move, but since I have to hold on so it doesn't cave back in, you have to get yourself out with one arm, and I'm pretty sure if you sit up right now you're going to pass out, and then we'll be back where we started. I need fifty feet of cable and a large hook, neither of which I have, so unless you know where I can get some, you need to give me a little more time."

The two vigilantes glared at each other. Jason finally leaned back with a sigh, jerking back up again sharply when the plastic poked the back of his head.

Tim ignored the mumbled curses, instead going back to his assessment of their predicament.

"We could just call Oracle."

"Replacement if you even think about it, I swear on the graves of every one of my dead family members that you will be in a full body cast for at least a month."

Tim shrugged noncommittally._ You're call. If you want to bleed to death in a dumpster instead of asking Bruce for help, so be it._

The silence stretched. Jason fought the dizziness and nausea that were beginning to overwhelm him. _Pretender, you better hurry the fuck up._

"Do you think you can roll out?"

"Huh?"

"Roll. Can you just roll over to the side, not over the edge? There's not much room, you'll have to roll over onto your bad arm-"

"Yeah. Let's do that. Right now. Come _on_, pretender, get over here."

Tim gave another exasperated sigh and stepped over into position. He made sure his feet wouldn't slip, pressed his back against the wall of the building behind him, and leaned over, getting a grip on the plastic cover.

"Ready?"

"Do it."

Tim pulled. Jason felt the cocoon of dumpster cover loosening around him, felt blood rushing back into his arm, felt the pain as he drew in a breath and shifted, rolling over, over, woah, too far, _shit_.

Tim saw the Red Hood topple over the edge, heard the dull thud and the accompanied moan of pain, and he sighed, shaking his head. Jason always wanted to do things the hard way. If he had waited, they could have called Oracle for help, not that he really wanted to see any of his family, but Bruce or Dick would have made things a lot less painful.

He released the plastic, letting it cave around into a Jason-Todd shaped hole, and hopped down to check on his older brother, who was curled on the ground, twitching. He had landed on his back and right shoulder, and judging from the flickering of his eyelids, was very close to passing out.

"Hood. _Hood_. Come on, no sleeping now. We've gotta get up and get back to the manor. _Hood_."

Jason simply groaned and tried to move over, further aggravating his injuries and making his limbs start to twitch rather strangely.

"Hood, if you don't get up yourself I'm going to have to drag you, do you _really _want me to-"

Movement at the entrance of the alley. Shadows collecting, forming shapes, hooded, human shapes, and there was something strange, something _off _about the way they moved...

A sound echoed down the alley.

A high pitched laugh.

The hair on the back of Tim's neck stood on end.

"_Todd_. Get _up_."

Jason moaned.

The figures were at the opening of the alley, bunched together, watching them, and Tim was starting to become nervous. How many were there? Seven? No, nine? If they were simply human, there would be no problem, but something about their movements, something about that laugh, that nearly manic laugh, was making him think they had to get out of there. _Quickly_.

Jason was still struggling to stay conscious. It would be harder to fight if he had to worry about protecting the other man. No other option. _If he kills me, well, probably not the worst way to go_. Tim reached into his utility belt and pulled out the tazer. Just a little shock. Just enough to get him awake again.

_Zzzt._

"Holy mother fucking _shit_! What the _fuck-_"

"Hood, you can beat me up later. Right now we've got to _go_."

"What? Pretender, I'm beating your ass into the dirt right this second, we are not waiting, I'm gonna-"

"Will you shut up for one second and _look_?"

"Huh? Oh."

The figures were advancing. Moving along the walls, shifting with the shadows, and there was something absolutely disjointed about the way they moved, jerks and sways, and the fact that they were advancing simultaneously was making Tim's skin _itch_. Jason backed up a step and nearly fell, catching himself on the edge of the dumpster.

"Robin? Any idea who those are?"

"Nope. But they're making me very uncomfortable."

"Kinda like spiders crawling up your back?"

"Exactly."

They were coming closer, and Tim could see their faces more clearly now. At first he thought they were deformed, their features overlarge and stretched, but no, they all had the same face, the same exaggerated, colorful features, the same twisted smile.

Masks. Clown masks.

"Oh, _hell _no," Jason muttered. "A new Joker gang? This day is just going to be the highlight of my year, isn't it."

"Do you think you can run?"

"I can't take a fucking _step_, what the hell makes you think I can run?"

"Ah. Fighting then."

"You fight. I'm gonna stand here and wait for my _entire _body to stop _tingling_."

And then one of the clowns was rushing forward, knife a dull silver flash cutting through the shadows. Tim's staff was in his hands already, had been in his hands from the moment he had seen movement out of the corner of his eyes, and now he positioned himself between the clown and Jason, blocked the knife's jab, kicked it out of the figure's hand, and pivoting on his left leg, delivered a side kick that he guessed would crack a few ribs and keep the clown out of the remainder of the fight.

The man (probably a man, a little hard to tell in this darkness) slammed up against the wall, propelled by gravity and the force of Tim's leg slamming into his stomach. And yes, that had definitely sounded like a bone or two snapping.

But…

The man was giggling.

_What?_

He giggled, stood back up, and _rammed _into Tim, faster than Tim would have ever thought possible, faster than should have been possible for a human, knocking him against the wall, his head cracking against brick. Jason was cursing furiously behind him, the other clowns having begun to advance, closing in around them, and ok, this was not, not, _not _good.

The man who had rushed Tim was coming closer, another knife in hand, and Tim knew now just how strong the man was. Even with injuries from Tim's kick, even though he wasn't anywhere near Jason, Bruce, or even Dick in term of size, he was stronger than some of the metas Tim had faced. Plus there was the fact that he didn't feel the broken ribs in his chest.

Tim did not have the resources to deal with this. Once he took this one out, there were at least seven more, plus he had an injured Red Hood to take care of, and Bruce would _hate _him if Jason got killed on his watch, which was just not acceptable, he needed a way out, he needed an idea, he needed…

"Hood!"

"What?!" Jason shouted from where he had propped himself against the dumpster, warding off the clowns with… was that an ax in his hand?

"Tear gas, smoke, whatever you've got, _now_!"

Tim had barely enough time to pull a mask over his face before the alley exploded with grey, choking gas.

The clowns, though apparently immune to broken bones, did not like the tear gas. Yelling and growling, almost animalistic, they rushed out of the alley and into the clearer air of the surrounding streets, scattering into the darkness, not interested enough in the two costumed men to return to the poisoned air of the alley.

…

Jason waited all of five minutes before he decided it was safe enough to talk.

"You're touching me."

"I'm touching you because we are inside a dumpster where there isn't very much space, and need I remind you, we are _hiding_."

"There's no way they're stupid enough to come back after that, no way in hell. If they do I'll just use your lovely tazer and shock the stuffing out of 'em."

"You've lost too much blood to be even thinking straight right now, your brain is even more scrambled than usual, you'd probably shock yourself, and anyways you don't have a… Give me back my tazer. "

"Nuh-uh. I am keeping this pretty toy out of your neurotic hands until I get home and don't have to worry about you shocking me whenever I'm getting a little sleepy."

"Todd, you were almost unconscious, and we were about to be _attacked_. What did you want me to do?"

"Not _electrocute _me."

"When you need to be electrocuted, I am going to electrocute you, not worry delicate emotions can handle it."

"Did you just call me _delicate_?"

"Hood, stop moving, there isn't that much space in here, Hood, _get away from me right now_, the tazer in on, the tazer is on _right now, oh my god_-"

Tim shot out of the dumpster, closely followed by a swaying, green faced Jason who promptly dropped the tazer, needing his good arm to hold himself up as he leaned over and promptly vomit up the contents of his stomach.

Nausea, due to all the moving around and the blood loss, Tim thought. Wonderful.

Alright, that was it. He was too tired to be dealing with Jason right now, too tired to deal with the implications of a new gang of super-clowns, it was too early in the morning and he had a board meeting tomorrow and he was covered in trash from the dumpster and suddenly he was just too tired. To hell with Jason and his idiot macho hang-up, he was calling in some help.

"Oracle. Red Robin, requesting some assistance with our beloved brother."

Silence.

"O? Babs?"

Nothing. Not even static. No signal.

Huh. Strange. Tim fiddled with the buttons on his comm, searching out the usual wavelengths, finding nothing but silence.

His comm was broken. When the clown had shoved him into the wall, he must have damaged something. There was always the emergency signal on his belt, but if he set that off, Bruce, Dick, and the demon brat were likely to come swooping down, and he really didn't want to have to look at them all, together and whole.

So he was on his own with Jason Todd, who had finished puking and was now merely trying to keep himself upright, swearing softly and imaginatively to keep himself from falling asleep. He stopped when he felt Tim's eyes on him, looking up with eyes that were bloodshot, pained, and slightly crossed.

"You are _not_ calling in B to help."

"No, I'm not. Comm's broken, so no contact. But we are going back to the manor, because I am not dragging you all the way to your apartment and then fixing you up when you pass out and can't do it yourself. Dick and Alfred can handle that."

Jason scowled, but seemed to decide against arguing. Even he could admit that he was in no position to be taking care of himself. "Whatever. Just get over here and help me. Sewer entrance?"

"That's the plan."

"Can't we just steal a car?"

"No."

"Please?"

Tim sighed, slinging Jason's arm over his shoulder and adjusting his grip against the taller man's waist, careful of the hole in his side.

"Ask me again in five blocks."

Something told him that it was just the beginning of a long night.

* * *

Yeah. Chapter Tres, bitches. They're going to start being longer now that I've got the background sorta established.

Hope everybody enjoys.


End file.
